


there’s not a word for what i want to do to you

by outruntheavalanche



Series: Season 4 Supernatural Codas [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Demons, Gen, Hell, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Plot Twist, Psychological Torture, Season 4 Spoilers, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-18
Updated: 2009-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’d been waiting for this moment for months, for years and now, it was finally his.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	there’s not a word for what i want to do to you

**Author's Note:**

> This idea just popped into my head and demanded I write it, so I did. Probably unoriginal. Many thanks to [**anonymous_sibyl**](http://anonymous_sibyl.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Title from “You and Me and the Devil Makes 3,” by Marilyn Manson. 
> 
> I’m kind of tired of editing this for various reasons. If you find any mistakes, please feel free to point them out.

He’d been waiting for this moment for _months_ , for _years_ and now, it was finally his.

 _She_ was finally his.

She was still pretty, though in entirely different ways now. Topside, she’d had flawless porcelain skin, a strong jawline, keen eyes that could cut as well as any knife (even _his_ knife). He could have imagined himself fucking her if he hadn’t wanted to kill her so bad.

Now, one eye was missing. All that remained was a gaping, bloody socket and a thin tendril of membrane where her eyeball had once been attached. Something, someone had plucked it out before he had his chance. Her light brown hair, once luxurious and abundant, had been hacked off either by knife or by claw, and dried blood matted what little hair she had left in scabby clumps.

Dean slid his fingertips down her cheek slowly to cup her chin, tilt her head back. She eyed him like a cornered animal, her damaged body held rigid against the rack. Dean let out a soft sigh of disappointment. He’d wanted her to be his first, Alastair had promised him she would be his first. That’d teach him to ever take the word of a demon as truth. Dean chuffed out a bitter, breathless laugh at the irony and dropped his hand.

Despite it all, Bela still held her head regally. When he retrieved his weapon and approached her, casually flipping his scalpel from hand to hand, she didn’t cringe away as his others had. She held her chin high, practically exposing her throat to him, her pale neck ripe for his blade.

“Dean Winchester,” she said, faintly, a smile twitching on her lips. “As I live-- ha!-- and breathe.”

“Bela. Long time, no see,” he said, circling her, stalking his prey. The blade flashed white and then silver as he played with the scalpel between his fingers. The flames of hell roared just beyond them. Dean could still feel the heat through the walls of bone and blood that separated him from the other lost souls.

“Don’t sound so excited to see me, darling,” she cooed. Her voice was soft, curling around him like tendrils of smoke. He could taste ash in his mouth.

“Oh, but I am.” Dean smirked and slid in next to her, rested his arm behind her shoulders. “We’re going to have some fun, you and I.” He tapped the blade against her cheek.

Bela smiled again, but he could see a flicker of fear at the corner of her mouth. “What game shall we play today?” she asked.

“I was thinking we could start with disemboweling and work our way up to decapitation.” He tapped the blade against her cheek again.

“How boring.” Bela sighed and rolled her eye skyward.

“I don’t suppose _you_ have any ideas,” Dean said, tracing the tip of his blade over her jutting collarbone. He pressed a little, just hard enough to nick against bone.

Bela didn’t flinch. “I’m fresh out, darling.”

Dean stepped back, his thick-soled boots crunching on dry, brittle bone, the only evidence left of his handiwork. “I’ve got an even better idea.” He turned to his exam table and selected a large fish hook. He held it up so that Bela could get a good look at it and he shivered inwardly at the brief ripple of fear that ran through her when she caught sight of it. “Just think of all the fun we could have with this bad boy.” Dean slashed it through the air and whistled, sounding impressed.

Her laughter rang out sharp and loud, like the peal of a bell. “Not very original.” She twisted against her bindings half-heartedly, digging bitten-down fingernails into the heels of her palms.

“Trying to escape?” Dean smirked again and strode forward in two large steps, the hook in hand. “You know what we do to attempted escapees, don’t you Bela?”

“No. But I imagine you’ll fill me in?” She feigned childish naïvete, blinking innocently and offering him a tiny, false smile.

“We do this.” Dean started to slash at her already shredded, bloodstained blouse with the hook, adding fresh wounds to the old ones.

“Just a scratch,” she chided, smiling sweetly at him.

“That’s not the worst of it, baby.” He raised his arm and flashed her a charming smile.

“Oh Dean,” she said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “What would your brother think of you now?”

Dean lowered his arm slowly and shot her a furious look. “What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘What would _Sammy_ think of you now, Dean,” Bela enunciated slowly, mouth twitching up at the corners. “Sammy would be-- ”

Dean advanced on her. “Don’t say his name.” _Sammy_ , especially on her lips, was like knives in his ears. Sharp, painful. Insistent. _Sammy_. His name didn’t belong down here, with the lost souls. Hearing it was like the worst kind of punishment, a whip across his back, or a blade against his skin.

Bela’s smile widened and there was laughter in her voice. “Sammy would be ever so disappointed to see what you’ve become, don’t you think?”

“I said _don’t say his name_.” Dean dropped the hook and slid his hand over her throat. He tightened his grip, just to make a point.

She broke into a wide grin. “Whose name, _Sammy’s_?” Dean tightened his fingers, and Bela choked out a rasping laugh.

He brought his face close to hers, fingertips digging into her throat. He wished he could rip it out with his bare hands. “I’ll make it hurt so bad you’ll beg for me to kill you, but wait, you’re already dead.”

“You’ll never break me. You don’t have it in you.” She jerked closer to him, still held back by her restraints, so that her face was mere inches away from his. He could smell the sulfur on her breath. “You’re not made of the right _stuff_ , Dean.”

Dean squeezed his hand, pushed her back against the rack. “I warned you.”

“You know I’m right, anyway. I can see it in your eyes.” She laughed, shrill and hysterical. “You’re like Hamlet in a way, a man paralyzed by his own weakness.”

Dean sneered, curling his lip in disgust. “What would _you_ know?”

“I know you talk a big game but you’ve nothing to back it up,” she continued, taunting him. “You flash that blade in your hand and strut around as if you own the place, but the mere sound of Alastair’s voice turns you into a quaking, quivering _child_.”

Dean stepped away and Bela’s head fell slack. “Shut up. I’ll end you right here, right now, bitch.” He crouched down and picked up the hook.

She snickered. “Tough words for a weak little Daddy’s boy.” Bela raised her head. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? A Daddy’s boy? Can’t do anything without Daddy to hold your hand!” She cackled. “Did Daddy hold your cock while you took a piss, too?”

Dean closed his fist around the handle of the hook and charged on her, slashing through skin, bone, blood-- nothing but air. Bela had vanished, leaving nothing in her wake.

Dean stuttered to a stop and blinked, rubbed at his stinging eyes. She’d been _right_ there. He’d felt her skin give way under his blade, felt the muscle underneath that fallible, all too human skin tear, and now she was gone. It was as if she’d never existed. Disappointment opened up in his chest, a dull ache throbbing where his heart should have been. He couldn’t even have _this_.

“Piss poor job, if I may say so myself.”

Alastair.

Alastair emerged from behind Dean and closed his hand around his wrist, working the hook out of his clenched fist.

“Where’d she go?” Dean asked, letting Alastair take his weapon.

“She was never here to begin with, Dean,” Alastair chuckled.

“But she was _here_ , I-- ”

“Let’s just say your mind is highly susceptible to the powers of persuasion.” Alastair pressed the tip of the blade to Dean’s shoulder and turned him around, until they were facing one another. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my performance, boy?”

Dean clamped his mouth in a tight line. He could feel acid rising in his throat, but he forced it back. “Bravo,” he gritted between his teeth.

“Now it’s time for the encore.” Alastair pushed Dean back, back until he collided with something hard.

The rack.

“No-- ” Dean tried to flee, but metal bindings closed around his wrists, locked him in place with deafening silence. Just beyond the walls, Dean could hear the screams of the tortured, lost souls. He’d never wanted to be amongst those souls, having his flesh torn from his bones strip by strip, more than he did at that very moment. Dean knew what Alastair was going to do to him would be far worse.

Alastair laughed and drew out a knife, its long, thin blade gleaming. He produced a leather strap and began to sharpen the knife; the sound of the blade scratching on leather made Dean’s stomach churn. He lowered his head, knowing full well what was coming.

Alastair held up the knife, finally sharpened to his satisfaction, and approached the rack. “Now the _real_ fun’s just getting started, kiddo.”


End file.
